


The Creature Under Winterfell

by stargategeek



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8391580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargategeek/pseuds/stargategeek
Summary: Under the heart tree, he had made her a promise - that he would make her a queen.





	1. The Mockingbird's Gifts

Under the heart tree, he had made her a promise - that he would make her a queen.

~~~~

Her mockingbird gives her gifts. Always when they're alone, always in secret.

The first gift; a bitter and foul tea. He first pours her a glass of wine as the hot water boils in the grate. He is calm, his face warm, a mask of geniality - one she is much too used to, to be comforted by. Though she does take comfort in the surety of his hands, in the lack of worry in his shoulders. He tells her it will be unpleasant, that there will be pain - he does not try to pretend that this will be easy. He also tells her the bitter truth:

"There is a possibility, my love," he whispers lowly to her, using his new name for her -a name he has not earned, but has taken any way. "You may never be able to bear children again. Can you live with that?"

Sansa looks at him with hard blue eyes and wordlessly gives him a sharp, sure nod of her head.

He does not need any more confirmation. The tea is brewed and he hands her the cup.

"Let it steep," he continues lowly. "Make sure you drink all of it."

She nods more emphatically now, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip.

"Would you like to be left alone?" He asks rather tenderly after setting the hot cup on the stand beside her chair. When she does not reply, he makes to leave, taking her silence as a request for her solitude. He does not expect the hand that fearfully grasps his arm.

"Stay," she says firmly, not looking at him, though her eyes betray her fear without her permission.

He nods and unfastens his cloak, placing it on a nearby table before taking a seat in the chair adjacent to hers before the roaring fire. His face and beard glow soothingly in the warm light, and his eyes look black as they watch her with the deepest unwavering interest.

"Are you comfortable?" He asks softly. She hasn't touched the tea yet, still working up the courage.

"As comfortable as I can," she answers flatly, her eyes fixed on the plumes of steam coming from the ominous object between them.

"You don't have to worry," he slowly reaches over, touching the soft pads of his fingers to the tips of hers, careful not to take any liberties. "I have sat many of my girls through this, it will be over quickly, I promise...unless you want the child..."

Her eyes snap to his in a fierce motion. She pulls her fingers away from his touch, the residual anger she harbours for him just brimming under the surface, just behind cerulean blue.

"It is a Bolton, I want nothing more of it," she looks away seething, hearing her former husband's hissing voice. "I want his legacy to end just like his life did...in blood and flames."

"Of course," he mutters, tenderly, his tone never changing. His eyes were still watching her, black and open like the maw of an ancient well. Fire dancing kindly in the epicentre, and the lines crinkling softly around them. It was a mask, to be sure, but it was a comforting mask all the same.

In one swift motion the tea is brought to her lips and choked back. It burns the back of her throat and sears all the way down to her womb. She coughs and splutters, gagging on the heat and the taste.

She falls forward feeling her gorge rise, and he is beside her in an instant, holding her hair back from her face and rubbing slow soothing circles into the middle of her back.

"Shh," he coos. "It will pass."

And indeed after a moment everything settles, the taste recedes to a mere slight unpleasant tang on her tongue, and the burning is doused with a quick small sip of wine.

"You should rest," he tries to coax her gently out of her chair. "In your bed, you will be the most comfortable there."

"And will you lie next to me?" She bites cruelly, shirking off his hands. "Nobly protecting your most valuable asset."

He has a moment of almost looking hurt at her cruel jibe. "If you wish, once you are resting comfortable I will return to my chair and I will not budge until I am asked to."

"That is what I wish," she hisses, moving past him briskly to her bed. She removes her cloak, revealing her white nightgown; it is thick white cotton and unflattering which suits her purpose.

He does not follow her, though he watches with rapt attention as she settles in among her furs. "Shall you remain vigil through the entire night?"

He smiles sadly, his eyes ducking downwards for a brief second before returning to hers, now grey and sad.

"I do not sleep," he says simply.

"Why not?" She sits in her bed, regal as a queen, scrutinizing his every move.

"The last time I slept, something of great value was stolen from me, now I merely rest with one eye open."

"What was it? This thing of great value," she mocks him slightly, annoyed by his vague words.

"My innocence," he says humourlessly. His mouth smiles but his face is blank and unreadable.

"Then it's a wonder I even sleep at all," she says dismissively, refusing to dwell anymore on the man before her. She finally nestles down completely, rolling over to her side and blowing out the candles on the table beside her bed - signalling the end of their talking.

Sansa lies there, eyes shut tightly - though she is very aware of every move he makes. She can sense how long he stands there, just staring at her back, perhaps with that same sad smile before he finally moves. His feet scuff against the stone floor as he walks around for a few heartbeats before finally settling into one of the chairs before the fire.  
Her ears twitch as the fire crackles, waiting for him to break the tense silence between them, but he does not. She wonders what he is thinking at this moment - what his next plans are, especially now that he is the only one who knows her secret. She wonders to herself why she even trusted him in the first place. She could've gone to Jon and he would've taken care of her just the same - but when her moon blood didn't come for the second cycle in a row the first man she requested audience with was her mockingbird. She knew he would be able to get the materials she needed discreetly, and how to brew them properly; she knew he would keep her secret, and if she asked he would never even breathe the idea of her being seeded with the Bolton bastard's child. She knew he would do anything for her because it was he who now owed her a debt.

She does not know for how long she sleeps for but it is dark and cold when she is violently awoken by a sharp intense pain. She cries suddenly, wincing, and feeling a warm wetness gush between her legs. It feels like a ripping, like being hollowed out by poison. Her hairline is dripping with dewey sweat, and despite herself, she is afraid. Her eyes brim with tears, human tears that she had wished never to shed over anything to do with her dead former husband, but she cries and places a hand on her stomach as her womb is savagely flushed clean.

She does not expect a warm hand on her shoulder and an arm around her waist. She is pulled into his embrace before she can stop him, and her first instinct is to run. In all the sudden confusion she forgets that he had been staying vigil - she forgets that the bastard is dead, and that the warm hands are gentle hands - clean hands.

"Sansa," he whispers softly in her ear when she struggles out of his grasp, a pained whimper leaving her mouth. "It's only me. It's only me, my love."

She doesn't want to be as comforted by that as she is, but relaxes under his hold, feeling a small measure of relief.

"It hurts," she whispers, allowing him to guide her into the crook of his arm and rest her head against his shoulder. She clings to his immaculate brocade doublet, squeezes as another wave passes through her.

"I'm sorry," he says lowly, in her ear, for only her to hear.

Her hand squeezes tighter as her breath hitches, willing the pain away.

"Make it stop," she winces once more, burying her face in his shoulder as she begins to cry in earnest. He rubs soothing circles down her back and places soft kisses on her forehead. He sweeps his hand over her damp hair, pushing it out of her face as tears stain his expensive garments. He doesn't even flinch.

"Nothing," he whispers softly. "Nothing can hurt you now."

As he soothes her he gently lays her down, himself coming to lie behind her, wrapping his arms around her middle - hands palm flat on her abdomen. The words he says are meaningless to her, sweet nothings only intended to calm her. Her tears cease after a long while of him simply holding her, securely. The pain subsides to a dull ache in between her legs, and her fingers (unbeknownst to her) have been idly playing in his beard. After a while all she feels is the soft kisses he presses into the space behind her ear. Chaste, tiny contacts of warm affection, nothing more. A distraction, she tells herself.

She can't deny she feels safer in his arms than she could imagine being in any others. The comfort of knowing exactly who he was and what he wanted from her.

Hours go by and they are still entwined like that...like lovers. Her eyes remain open the entire time, and she knows he is still awake too. She can feel the weight of his gaze at the back of her head, his steady, measured breaths on her bare neck, his lips barely inches away, although he has stopped with his kisses. He is waiting, and she knows he is - waiting for some kind of acknowledgement...or permission.  
She gives him neither. He has not earned it yet.

When light breaks through her window she finally breaks the embrace, moving away from him without a word and heading to the basin in the corner of her room. She grimaces at the large red stain down the front of her nightgown and with a damp cloth proceeds to wash the caked brownish-red blood from her legs and the inside of her thighs.

When she looks up he is already on his feet, building a fire and collecting the sheets from her bed. He burns them in the fireplace, the final remains of her past burnt up with last nights ash. He finishes the glass of wine that she never did in a single gulp, and she finally sees the front of his tunic - slashes of red streaks seeped into the dark fabric from his lower chest down to the edge of his breeches - glittering in the faint light. He says nothing as he puts on his cloak and fastens the mockingbird pin around his throat. Then his eyes meet hers.

"When your chambermaid arrives, inform her of the arrival of your moons blood, and eat sparingly if you can," he gives as final instructions. It was early enough for him to leave her chambers without being noticed and with one final long look he turns and leaves.

Sansa stands, feeling somewhat empty and cold now that he is gone, and it is not a feeling she particularly enjoys. She heeds his instructions and remains in her chambers for the rest of the day, sitting in the chair he had sat in the night before, staring into the burning fire that had severed her final connection to a bastard, and almost more frighteningly sealed a whole new bond that she hadn't meant to make, but she made anyway.

~~~~

The second gift her mocking bird gives her; a box of three vials.

"They all have their own special uses," he explains as she looks over them in his makeshift solar. "You must only use them when you are sure what they are, and what they are needed for."

She looks at him then back down at the vials. One red, one green, and one so pristinely clear it almost looks empty.

"Can you tell me what they are?" He asks coyly, a small smirk being subtly depressed by his upper lip.

She gives him a hard look, her patience low today for his games. She looks at the vials once again. There had to be more than what meets the eyes. That was the game.

"The red...it is blood," she says firmly, lifting the vial gently from its slot.

"Yes, but whose?" He grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"I don't know," she says flatly. "Why don't you tell me instead of making me guess?"

He chuckles and takes a few small steps closer to her. "My love, if I tell you then you won't know," he says vaguely.

She glares at him now fully unamused.

"What about the green? Surely you recognize it?"

She looks down at the box again, replacing the red vial back inside before gently pulling out the green.

"Careful, Sansa," he warns.

Sansa eyes the glowing green liquid for a long time, she does know this substance , but where? Her eyes widen in sudden realization.

"Wildfire?"

He nods and smiles almost proudly.

"What could I possibly use this for?" She asked hotly, gently putting the vial back in the box and stepping away from it.

"You will know...when the time comes."

"What if I don't, what if I never figure it out because I'm just a stupid naive little girl," she hisses at him, the words intended to sting him.

"We both know you are not," he says lowly, another step towards her.

"Then why do you treat me like one?" She looks at him firmly, not content to play this game of subject and mentor with him, not so soon after abusing her trust.

He doesn't answer, only looks at her with soft green eyes, his face blank but tender.

"And the third?" He asks.

She looks once more into the box at the clear vial. She lifts it, examines it from every angle, sloshes the liquid inside from side to side, even swirls it in even circles watching the liquid change shape and then settle.

"It's not water," she states.

"Very good," he takes another step towards her.

"It's cold," she continues. "Even when you hold it in your hand, it remains cool to the touch."

"Yes?" He takes another step closer, twisting his steps to come behind her. One arm wraps around the forearm holding the vial, the other to the curve of her waist. He folds himself around her, his head coming just inches away from her shoulder. The hold is tender, his thumb gently strokes the inside of her wrist. She can feel the heat of him along her spine, and she shifts uncomfortably under its presence.

"It could be anything. A magic potion, the tears of the gods, spirits..."

He laughs - not unkindly - against her and shakes his head.

"No, my dear, despite how fantastical that sounds. Think deeper, think of what else I have given you, think of what I have armed you with thus far...and think of all my promises, then you will know what this is and what it is for."

His hand slides up from her forearm to cup the side of her face, guiding her to look at him. The hand at her waist slides along her stomach, gently pulling her closer to him and before she can resist his lips are softly pressed against hers. The kiss is brief, and when he pulls away he looks straight into her eyes, reading them. Sansa only stares at him, stony and made of ice.

"I do not wish to play your games," she says firmly, before turning and walking out of his embrace.

~~~~

Her mockingbird's third and final gift; a blade made out of pure obsidian.

Jon calls a meeting of his new high council. Davos - hand of the King, Lady Mormont, and the rest of the high lords in the North.

"The wight's are coming," Jon proclaims, with urgency.

Sansa sits at his side, but her eyes watch the mockingbird sitting in the back, ledger in hand as he scratches figures into his charts. She had Jon named him Master of Coin once again, and one of the councils high advisors, though only in matters of business and distribution, in matters of war he is ignored entirely, unless the needs of the Vale come into question. It is no small secret that he is the one with Robin's ear, and thus, he is acting representative and voice of the young impulsive lord. It is foolish though, she thinks, how Jon and his men underestimate the clever Littlefinger. She however, does not.

He does not speak though as the council discusses strategy in dealing with the oncoming army of undead ice creatures. Nimble, long, stained fingers gently glide over gilded parchment, scrawling letters in a fine script. A young boy, about twelve years of age is called over to his side with merely a flick of his finger. The young squire, wearing the grey and white uniform of House Stark - an oversized tunic and pants that need hemming - is handed a note, held betwixt thumb and two fingers. The mockingbird leans over and whispers soft and intricate instructions into an ear disguised by messily cropped dirty brown hair. This boy was no minor lord's son, he was no ward, and the way that Petyr barely hides a small smile of approval at him as he dutifully obeys his commands, Sansa can't help but wonder at the boy Petyr must have been...perhaps not unlike the young squire.

Her eyes are drawn to the young lad as he weaves through all the bodies in the room, like a rat scurrying underfoot, barely rustling the dank air in the room with his quick and quiet movements - all until he is at her side, bowing his head, and delivering the handwritten note into her open palm. Sansa smiles at the boy, reaching into her cloak for a small coin purse and producing a gold dragon for his troubles. He scurries off once more, into one hole or another. Her eyes look up to meet the mockingbird's, his hands now hovering above his books, twirling the quill in his hand idly. His head tips forward in a slight nod, then as if nothing had happened returns to his figures.

Sansa can feel Jon's gaze in the periphery of her senses. She knows he has witnessed the whole interaction. For propriety's sake she tucks the note into her sleeve without reading it, her head turning to meet him, eyes icy and her face pure marble.  
Jon's forehead knits together slightly in apprehension, his eyes stern with a look of warning before returning his attention on his men and their plan.

Sansa says nothing, but keeps a single finger on the folded parchment through the rest of the meeting. Until she can find a moment alone to read its contents.

The note contains one single solitary word. Godswood.  
She doesn't have to think about it long, she knows what it means. Her feet carry her swiftly down the stone steps of the main tower. She is quiet, but purposeful, heading in the direction of the heart tree. Her hands clasped in front of her - anyone would think she was a devout woman off to pray for good fortune and the Mother's Mercy. She hardly ever goes to the Godswood for that anymore.

"It's a shame, really," she hears him before she sees him. She stiffens against the slight wind blowing through the low hanging trees. "All those men, sitting in your presence, each one underestimating you at every turn."

Sansa's eyes harden to steel, her ears prickling with attention, trying to find him before he surprises her.

"None of them recognizing their true Queen," he continues. His voice seems to be coming from all around her, like a god, or a voice carried by the wind.

"I'm not their queen, they didn't choose me," she says matter of factly, tired of his talk, tired of this dream.

"Perhaps not," she hears a crunch in the snow behind her. Her body wheels around in one smooth motion. She sees him now, stepping out from behind the trunk of the heart tree, black against the stark white of the trees surrounding the clearing. "But they are fools."

"I know nothing of war, of battles, of strategy..."

"Ah!" He stops her with a hand. "Of war, no - of battles, perhaps not - but of strategy...my love, you are a natural."

"All I know is what you've taught me," she says flatly.

"What I've taught you? I've taught you how to hone it - to focus it, and use it to your best advantage, but from even before you met me you've had instincts...things not even the greatest tutors in Westeros can teach. I've given you a little guidance, nothing more - and herein lies the greatest distinction between you and your dear half-brother."

"Jon? Jon is the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, he befriended the wildlings, has survived countless battles..."

"And the woman who called upon the Vale army at just the right moment to swing the tides of battle? The wife who arranged her husband to be devoured by his own dogs? The..." He pauses, oddly, his eyes flicking to the ground for the briefest of moments before flitting back up to hers. "The girl that lied for a man that kissed her in the snow."

"She was a fool..."

"She was no fool," he hisses the words, as if to burn her with them. "You knew exactly what you needed to make me yours forever, and I am."

Sansa stiffens at his confession - if it even was a confession and not another of his manipulations.

"I have a gift for you," he reaches into his cloak and produces a long object covered in a fur cloth.

"I do not want your gifts," Sansa said harshly.

"Then let us make this my last and my most important," he holds the parcel out for her to reach out and take of her own accord. She eyes him warily, the distrust between them still so loud and heavy as a leaden stone.

She takes slow, hesitant steps toward him, curiosity trumping caution. His gifts have not been of any malice thus far - though she could never be truly sure with his mockingbird smile.

Her hands gently light upon the soft fabric, her fingers running over the seam and along the two bits of twine that secured the material over what lay beneath.

"What is it?" She asks, her eyes moving to his face, lazily, hiding all emotion and fear behind piercing cerulean blue.

"Open it and see," he matches her stare with hard grey and emerald.

She gingerly fingers the ends of one of the twine before pulling it out of its knot, dropping it unceremoniously into the snow at their feet. She repeats the action with the other twine, watching as the fabric fell away, opening up to reveal a small blade in a leather sheath.

"It's a knife," she says dumbly, confusion crossing her face, annoyance following at its heels.

"It is a blade," he corrects. "Of pure dragonglass."

Sansa is still confused. "What is it for?"

"It is very rare, hard to get ones hands on. It is a very special material - obsidian. It has wondrous, weird and miraculous properties. Formed by the earth, shaped by magical creatures...and I've heard tell that it is one of the only things that can kill a white walker."

Her attention perks up at the mention of the wights.

"A white walker?"

He nods, "I paid a fair sum for this blade, but it was a price well paid for your sake."

Sansa pushes his hands away, scoffing.

"You wasted your money then. I can't use it, I'm not a warrior," she mutters, looking down briefly. "You should gift this to the King in the North, someone who can actually wield it."

Petyr breathes out a small laugh.

"You do not need to be a warrior to wield this blade, my love," his eyes locked onto hers, the humour leaving his body as rapidly as it came. "We both know, Sansa, that you are far more dangerous."

With his left hand he grasps the knife as the right reaches in between them to pull at the ties of her cloak. Sansa once again goes rigid at his strange actions. She feels his hand slither inside, cupping the curve of her waist in an entirely inappropriate way that has Sansa wanting to slap him across the face, though she resists - for the knife still held in his hand. The touching ceases there though, as he brings the hand holding the blade up to her breast and gently secures it in the rough fur lined pocket just inside her cloak. His hands recede slowly and steadily away from her form, leaving her unscathed though burning all the same. His form remains uncomfortably close to hers, his eyes coming to rest at the curling ends of her hair, clouded over with grey sadness as they usually do in these quiet vulnerable moments he only ever allows when they are this close. Unguarded, and strange.

"I can't protect you," he mutters lowly. His demeanour shifts dramatically as he looks at her with that same uncontrolled tenderness as the last time they stood under this tree. "When the wight's come, and they will...I cannot be your knight, I learned long ago that it is not who I am. Your father was a knight...perhaps that's why she loved him."

Sansa doesn't need to ask who she is, she can tell by the soft sadness in his eyes.

"I'll be leaving for the Vale shortly," he finally meets her gaze. "How I would like for you to come with me. Sweetrobin would surely provide you shelter under my suggestion. The young lord has blossomed out of his mother's oppressive shadows."

Sansa remained still and silent, stoic as the statues in her family's crypt.

"But I know it is futile," he continues, his mouth curving in a sad smile. "You will not leave these walls ever again, I presume."

"Winterfell is my home," she says in a way of agreement.

"And it could be great once again if you sat on it's throne," his hands suddenly came to cup her face. It was gentle, much like the small intimacies they shared before his betrayal. The gesture was still somewhat comforting, still fatherly, though his eyes burned with something much darker.

"I'm done indulging your schemes," she looks at him piercingly, her tone neither warm nor harsh, simply like grey stone, unmovable. "You're a coward, Petyr Baelish, and you hide behind greatness and vague words. You plot, and you move pieces on the board, and you hoard secrets so you can lord over powerful men, making their power work for you so you can stay safe behind your papers and ledgers and never get hurt."

His face drops into utter blankness as his hands slowly come away from her face and drop down to his sides. His eyes grey as steel, and all of his affection hardened to diamonds.

"You say you love me, that you would do anything for me, yet you still run when you could be by my side. You fought for her once..."

"Sansa," she can't tell if it's a warning or a plea.

"Leave, I release you from your debt. Go to the Vale, protect yourself, whisper your little mockingbird tales into Sweetrobin's ears, push him out the moon door and proclaim yourself king of the sky...but know if you leave Winterfell now, I never want you to return."

Sansa turned with an air of finality, leaving him to stand there cold and alone in the Godswood, her eyes never turning to look back.


	2. The King and the Queen

"The wights are here."

Uttered with such a cold sense of certitude, it was enough to send a shiver up every Northman's spine.

It took three days to assemble a battle strategy between the Northen Lords, the Vale Generals, the Hand and the King. Herself there out of pure courtesy on her brother's part, yet her contribution scarcely glanced at. Her mockingbird - unsurprisingly - was absent.

It is not until the dawn of the battle, when she is dressing, that she is informed she must take her place in the crypts with the servants and children - on the King's orders.

Wisps of ghostly frost danced at her ankles as she marched through the courtyard. Hair billowing, untamed like fire caught in the harsh winter wind.

A rolling white fog hovered in the distance over the trees and the long snowy field that separated them from the horde of walkers marching their way. Sansa could see the unnatural way the mist rolls as her head peaks over the battlements. It is a disconcerting sight, but she has other priorities.

Purposefully she walks past soldiers too busy adjusting their armour, or fearfully eyeing the foreboding cloud of ice to care about the red-haired northern princess.  
It is not until she stops, right next to his side - her rightful place - that anyone takes notice of her.

"Sansa," Jon's voice drips with concern, his face softened with worry, and his large hand coming to encompass her shoulder. "You're not supposed to be here."

It makes her blood boil.

"I am a Stark, I have earned the right to stand here, same as you," she sounds like a stubborn child, perched on the battlements with no armour, no weapon.

"Sansa, please," Jon says kindly, trying to appease her. "I need you to be safe. A Stark must always be in Winterfell." His lips quirk upwards in a brotherly smile. "Please, go down into the crypts and wait for me to return."

"You're not going to return," she says flatly, bitterness boiling in her Tully blue eyes. "I'd rather die by your side, defending Winterfell then in the darkness underneath it alone."

"Sansa, I don't want to hear it, I have given my orders. Trust me, as your King...and your brother." He kisses the knuckles of her nearest hand. "I'll have Davos escort you." Davos, ever-vigilant, took a step forward as per his King's command.

"I know the way, I will take care of myself," she turns harshly, yanking her hand out of his grip.

"Sansa..." Jon pleads.

Her anger deafens her to anything else her king has left to say. Her steps are furious, and her hair is even more like fire as she weaves through the crowd of soldiers and men standing ready to fight for her brother.

A young maid waits for her inside - a nervous, mousy little woman, with large brown eyes and dull, but pretty features in her face. "Shall I escort you to the crypts, m'lady?" She follows behind the unrelenting force that is Sansa's fury.

"No," Sansa says firmly. "I have something I must do." Sansa turns and her face softens seeing the young maid quiver with nerves. "Defending Winterfell means more to me than my safety. I will deal with my brother's wrath later. Go on, keep the others assured, tell them a Stark will always remain in Winterfell."

Sansa swept up the hem of her dress and cloak, her thick-soled boots labouring against the cold stone, and worn wood up to the chambers that once belonged to her beloved parents, and now belonged to her.

She wastes no time once she passes through the heavy oak door. Underneath the mattress on the left side is where she has hid the dagger ever since he gave it to her. Still ensconced in the simple fur wrap she had received it in, untouched and waiting.

Her cloak is blown wide open as she unwraps the blade. She only freezes once it is unveiled. The material is dark and heavy - not unlike his eyes - and shimmers in the light, when held in a certain way. A heady bite of bitterness seeps into the slight warmth the remembrance of her mockingbird gave, solemnly returning back to stone and ice. There was no use dwelling upon him now, he had given her what she needed and he had fled. She hoped he was frozen deep into the snow by now.  
Refocused to the task at hand she securely tied the blade into the pocket of her cloak; a design she had created herself for such an occasion.

She replaces the long hood upon her head then leaves, hearing the heavy door click behind her.

~~~~~

It was the cold, that she remembered - most vividly. The tears had frozen on her cheeks, the sharp wind stinging and jabbing at the dewey remnants. The cold stone burnt like the tip of a flame on her palm where she had gripped the perilous edge; the palm she now had cradled in her lap. A scream, or cry, or something lodged in the back of her throat was choked down by sobs, and silenced by the freezing air.  
She was a princess of winter, cold had never bothered her in this way. Of course, this was an entirely unnatural kind of cold, not the cold of the north that she had grown up with. There was a certain nobility in the Northern winds, never so icy, and lacking in feeling as the cold that pervaded this room.  
The coldness of a chilling, heartless revenge.  
But then it changes, and she feels a warm hand at the small of her back - a drastic change from the unforgiving temperature currently causing her bottom lip to tremble. He is suddenly there, blocking her from the bottomless gaping maw, and drawing her back to a singular focus. Those eyes, moments ago as hard and unyielding as the mountains themselves, we're now warm, and flecked with soft green. His other hand comes to her cheek, hands gentle and soft, brushing off the flecks of frost and stray snowflakes from her cheeks and eyelashes.

"Are you hurt?" He whispers, only for her to hear.  
She only manages to shake her head, her words still lost to her. His eyes scan along her arms down to her knees then back up, adjusting a lock of hair from her face.  
"Good." His expression remains stoic, save for the faintest twitch on the left corner of his mouth.  
"Guards!" He throws his head back and gives a pained yell. "Guards! My lady wife has fallen!"

Sansa doesn't see the Vale soldiers running through the door, or hear the clanking of their armour or their shouts of distress. All the chaos blurred into the background as her gaze focused completely on her mockingbird's eyes. Their cold surety, and the deep dark something that she refused to name but had seen there before - or perhaps it had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface.

It chilled her right to the bone.

~~~~

There is no telling how long she had been asleep for, or when precisely she had dozed off; the windows in the Great Hall of Winterfell were small and dim.  
The first thing she feels is his presence; a ghostly cold hand curling around her spine and sharply caressing her cheeks. Even her Northern blood prickles in discomfort. A coldness not unlike what she felt knelt over the mouth of the moon door. It was an unnatural feeling, bristling with ancient magic and the cloying sweetness of death.

Crystalline eyes open wide at the sound of the large wooden doors jerking. The resounding clank echoes through the cavernous hall to where she sits, on her throne, the red-haired Queen. Underneath her cloak, her hand silently slides up to where the dragon blade sat securely. She starts when the door jerks again - the hand stops in its slow movement, her heart beats wildly, and her eyes stay fixed to the other end off the hall. After a moment her hand continued on its quest to free the obsidian blade from its sheath. It felt cold in her hand, even through her thick gloves, and it's weight was comforting in her palm and against her chest.

The doors flew open, followed by a gust of white mist. Slashes of frost spat out on the floor in white streaks, a ghostly cold steam rising from them. Out of the steam and fog a figure stood, just under the arch of the doorway.  
Sansa squinted, trying to make out her intruders face. Her heart wondered briefly if it was the mockingbird, returned to take her away once again, but she suppressed that betraying hopeful twinge, _Petyr had his chance_.  
It is not a moment when the notion is disregarded entirely by the figure stepping into the dim light. A brush of cold wind passes through the room, snuffing out the two wall sconces on the far side of the Hall.

Sansa felt a small quake begin in the hand not wrapped around the knife pressed to her bosom, though her face stayed as neutral as possible. _You have survived, Sansa Stark_ , she could almost hear him say the words. _You have survived where others have not._

The figures visage is unlike anything she had ever seen before. Almost human, but not quite, with piercing blue glowing eyes. A wight, and judging by the jagged crown of ice atop his head he was a King. A King without a throne and a Queen without a crown. Was that why he regarded her so? She lifts her chin defiantly - she will bow for no man, not any more.

The strange creature regards her, almost inquisitively, like it is assessing her. It's hand icy and blue veined, moving in a jagged circular motion at it's side, as it slowly approached her. She sat unmoving from her throne, determined not to be taken alive this time. If this King wanted her throne he would have to pry her dead body off of it. He doesn't attack her though, but continues his slow, methodical ascent towards her, tracing an invisible pattern in the air with his clawed index finger. Her breath comes out as fog in a long white stream, wafting into drops upon her eyelids.  
The King takes long, measured strides towards her.. The finger moving faster, twisting with almost unnatural dexterity, now lifted, and pointed toward her in its movement. The King is freakish and odd to look at, human...but not. A man once, maybe a thousand years ago, but now - a creature of legend. His leather bound feet deftly touch upon the first step leading to where the red Sansa sits. Her hair billowing like fire, recoiling against the icy sting of this creature's presence.

Sansa's hand grips the jagged handle of her mystical blade tighter under her cloak. The tighter her hand squeezed the more she thought of her mockingbird. How could he have predicted this eventuality? It infuriated her that despite knowing the depths of his deepest want, she still could not read him. It still hadn't been enough - and every part of her wanted to hate him for abandoning her once again. Though as her fate approached, a trail of blue ice following it in its wake, all she thought of was her grey little mockingbird, and his sad smile. She would've loved him had he been less cruel, less selfish.

Crystals form on her cheeks from the cold, and the King was barely more than two or three feet from her. His breath like a cold north wind on her face, reddening her pale skin violently, but she refused to look away. Glowing blue eyes pierced her with his dead man's gaze. She in return, pierced him with hers. Her fingers tightened around the blade, waiting for the exact moment, the precise second to strike. He drew nearer, his face in line with hers, his finger now frighteningly close to her cheek, circling and twisting, so close to scratching at her delicate warm flesh.

She doesn't know what happens, whether her eyes falter or her breath catches, but when she slashes the blade up to pierce his neck his hand catches her by the forearm, burning the impression of his hand on her bare skin. She loses grip on the blade, and suddenly another icy hand is on her throat, dragging her out of her throne to poise her helplessly on the edge of the stone steps. Her blade now poised at her own heart. The fall is no where near the terrifying height of the moon door, but she is transported there anyway. She can feel the violent tug on the hair, and the high harsh winds on her face and throat. The noise is deafening, the screaming is deafening.

"Let her go!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy! This chapter has plagued me!!  
> A necessary evil.  
> Now let the madness flow.


	3. The Wolf and the Mockingbird

A mockingbird once kissed a snow maiden amongst the ruins of a demolished castle. He promised he'd help her make a new one, before sealing their bond with a soft kiss. It is brief, and when she pulls away she sees for the first time a look of uncertainty, a bright green glimmer in the back of his charcoal eyes.  
A voice in the back of her mind whispers _"He didn't plan to do that."_  
His hands drop cautiously from her face back down to his sides, clenched until the knuckles turned white. _"But he wanted to."_

In a matter of seconds he returns to himself, behind the lidded grey smile she was familiar with. Laughing the kiss off as a moment of fond remembrance of a childhood long tarnished by the sadness of reality, nothing more. He departs as swiftly as he came, disappearing up the snow covered stairs, leaving her alone to realize that she had finally caught a glimpse of the man behind the mask - or perhaps she has only seen another layer.

That same day she catches another glimpse, but it is altogether different and frightening.

~~~~

"Let her go."

Sansa recognized all too much the tone and timber of that voice. It was a different creature altogether, one that had thrown a red-haired harpy through a moon door. His black cloak looked like ink - one with the dark crevices and hidden secrets of Winterfell. When he stepped out of the shadows behind the King, Sansa could see the darkness in his gaze, the heaviness in his brow, his possessive nature forming a billowing dark cloud around his visage. From his command the King ceased his movement, standing still and staring with his gaping blue skull eyes at something beyond Sansa's head.

"Let her go," he repeats, a threatening undertone to his husky drawl.

The hand around her throat tightens ever so slightly, causing Sansa to choke on the small bursts of air she could manage to suck in.

"Pe-" she croaked, before feeling the sharp point of the dragonglass blade still directed at her heart. "Agh!" She grunted helplessly, cold stinging tears prickling in the corners of her eyes.

"Sansa," his voice is calm, drawing her attention away from her captor back to him, standing behind the King of the Wights with his own black obsidian blade drawn. He looks at her firmly, giving her a small, tight smile. His black cloak shifted and his hand slowly and steadily raised, parallel to his jaw - holding up a small green vial in his gloved hand. Her eyes widened in realization, looking up to grey-green with uncertainty.

"Sansa," his voice remains dark and hard has stone. "Fly!"

In a flash, the vial is thrown at the King's feet, erupting into green flames. An inhuman shriek emanates from his frost blue lips and Sansa is thrown. She collides against the cold stone wall, the air knocked from her lungs, and a searing ache in her shoulder. Her throat bears an icy sting from the creatures grip, though she recovers in just enough time to see the wight turn on her mockingbird, grabbing him by his feathered collar, knocking Petyr's blade from out of his hand and placing the black jagged dagger at his heart. Her bird is wily though. His hands, designed for calculating figures, forging gold dragons, and pulling delicate strings wrap around the ice bound wrists of his attacker, using a hidden strength to fend off such a powerful creature. This is not his first time stopping a blade from entering his heart, but even with all his might the blade begins to touch, to sink, deep into the soft flesh of his left breast. She watches his face screw up in soundless pain, teeth clenched and hissing - a choked cry being smothered by the icy hand clamped around his throat.

"Petyr!" She hears herself cry.

A gleam in her periphery draws her attention to just behind the powerful ice King, where her mockingbird's blade lies abandoned on the stone floor. _You do not need to be a warrior to wield a blade such as this_ , Sansa looked at the blade, then back at her mockingbird, writhing helplessly underneath the King's relentless grip. _We both know that you are far more dangerous._  
Possessed by a quiet fury she didn't know was within her Sansa stood, the pain in her shoulder ignored, the stinging on her throat forgotten. Deftly and silently as a wolf, she stalked up, behind where her bird was caught, and knelt to the ground, as if in prayer. Her hands wrapped around the cold dark blade, and drew it up to her breast, not even making the faintest scratching sound upon her cloak as she rose. Her footfalls were non-existent against the weathered stone and wood, and her hair billowed about her like an endless fire.  
Sansa no more, but a queen, dragged out from the depths - a wolf protecting what was hers. _He is mine and mine alone._  
The blade, still clutched at her breast was now poised, ready to strike as she crept around the shoulder of her prey, to the arm clutching the twin dagger, its tip just barely inside Petyr's chest. With unnatural speed, she slashed downwards, severing hand from forearm, and on the second slash, the twin blades collided, shattering the blade held tenuously in between them.  
The King of the wights viciously turned, his only hand raised, bringing down a harsh hit to her pale face, sending her with dizzying speed to the cold ground. A trickle of copper red blood dribbled from her lip, down her chin, and froze just around the crest of her jaw. When she looked up he was standing over her, breathing wafts of death-chilling plumes out his nostrils, his blue-veined hand once again reaching for her with its unnatural twitching fingers. The handless arm dangled at its side, drops of a thick black-blue substance dripping from the open cavity of translucent bone and crystallized blue flesh.

Sansa could just see Petyr behind the King's looming presence; weak, his left hand clutched over his heart, the brocade fabric torn and glistening with red, and his own throat a violently crimson hue. He had sunk to the ground when the blade shattered. His free hand braced against the wall, the tip of the blade still lodged in his chest. She had never envisioned this was how they would meet their end. He promised her he would make her a queen, he promised her everything.

Sansa cries out when she is pinned down by the King's remaining hand, then held firm by his knee pressing hard into her chest as the hand slid over her collarbone, along her neck and into the long red hair at the back of her head, clutching it hard. It leant forward, as if to kiss her, or take possession of her soul.

"You can't have me," she spat, defiantly. "I belong to the North."

A low, dark grumble emanated from the creature, as it drew ever closer to her, breathing her in.

"You cannot win," she grinned ever so slightly, despite the swelling of despair in her gut. "I will be Queen."

Sansa almost shuts her eyes, almost believes it all to be over when she hears the almost fleshy sound of snow and ice being crushed underfoot. Her blue eyes opened wide to see her mockingbird, her Petyr looming over the crouched King with the broke remnants of the shattered dragonglass blade thrust into its gut.  
"My Queen," he hissed with a proud and sinister leer over the creatures shoulder, stabbing the creature once again.

It's grip slackening, Sansa gained enough leverage to bring her own blade up, stabbing him clear through the centre of his chest, a hint of a smile playing at her lips as she caught the grey-green gleam of Petyr's eyes.  
An unearthly shriek emanated from the wight's mouth, a sound Sansa had never heard or would ever hear the likes of again. It was deafening and she couldn't help but cover her ears and shut her eyes to the offending noise. His weight atop her left as he spun around to face Petyr, now eye-level with the blade jutting out of the King's chest bobbing between them. Sansa watches, as if frozen there in the ground. The Wight's only hand pulling out the black obsidian blade only to shatter it against the ground. His veined, blue-black fingers reached into the hole in Petyr's chest and with one violent shove sent the broken tip, all ready resting there into the heart of her mockingbird. It all happens so slowly. Like a wave, as pink, flushed skin turns to ice, and as grey-green turns to blank, glowing blue. The King of the Wight's envelops the small little bird in an almost intimate embrace before shattering into ashes like broken glass and feathers leaving Petyr to collapse to his knees where the wight once stood.  
Sansa doesn't even realize that she is screaming until the sound dies in her throat.

The hall echoes with the last remains of the King, before turning heavy with the most unnerving silence. She hears his breathing, a ragged sound, like the breathing of a mystic and hungry animal. His back moves with long, droning heaves, and she can see patches of blue tinged icicles forming on the ground where his hands are pressed firmly, holding his torso upright.  
Sansa feels herself frozen along with him, frozen in fear of what lay before her still breathing. Not completely human anymore.

"Petyr?" She whispers, like a child.

His head snaps up, striking a spike of fear like ice through the very core of her. Blank blue and dead glowing eyes meet her. Not angry though, not predatory - an entirely new mask that she had very rarely seen on the man she had known as Petyr Baelish. Fear.

"Sansa..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intrigued yet?  
> You know I am!


	4. Loyalties

"How does it feel?" She asked her mockingbird once, when he had accompanied her on a walk through the grounds of her ancestral home. "To be standing here where she had been so happy - without you."

It had meant to hurt, but she could not quite bring herself to pity him, even when the light in his eyes faded despite his smiling face.

~~~~

By the time the sun began to dip to the southeast, stories flooded from the battlefront of how the walkers had simply ceased.  
The battle had looked hopelessly lost until all movement suddenly stopped, like the ice that had formed them had finally frozen the undead creatures.

There was tell of an inhuman shriek that rose above the din of clashing swords and crying men, that had made each and every white walker halt where they stood.  
The soldiers stared blankly at each other, some in mid-swing - unsure of what to do next as all the walkers eerily turned their gaze towards Winterfell, standing stock still to the horizon. Without a word or a look, they turned, and began walking.  
They walked past every Northman, Vale soldier and wildling standing with their swords drawn in the field. They walked past armaments, catapults, and horses. They walked all the way to the forest line and then disappeared. Just like that the fighting was over and no one knew how.

The cheers from the men in the North could be heard from King's Landing.

Jon Snow was the first to enter the gates of Winterfell leading a roaring dirty pack of soldiers behind him. He leapt up the stone stairs, past droves of guards and men patting his back, cheering, and throwing ale at his feet.

"Where is Lady Sansa?" He asked, his smile wide, but his brown eyes crossed with concern.  
The jubilant voices died around him, streaked and bloody faces searching around for someone who could answer their King. Davos stepped out of the din, his face serious, though not grave.  
"She didn't make it into the crypts with the rest of the servants," he clasped Jon's shoulder comfortingly. The older man gave him a soft smile. "Do not worry, my King, one of the guards said she was only minorly injured."

Jon's face dropped. "Injured?"

"A bruised shoulder and a few scrapes, she's resting in her chambers as we speak."

Jon spun around quickly, already making his way to the tower that harboured his sister. Davos followed quickly behind him.

"My lord, Lady Sansa is made of more durable stuff than mere flesh and bone, you, though, have men who need to be assured that what happened today was indeed a victory."

"There is no victory unless there are two Starks in Winterfell," Jon said sharply, climbing the narrow stone staircase leading out of the courtyard.

"And the men?"

"Have food and ale passed around freely, see that the wounded are tended to, have the guards maintain their posts on the wall, anything moves out of that forest I want to hear of it."

Davos pressed his lips together for a moment, his weathered and wary gaze hardening briefly before he gives his King a stiff nod and walks away to make the necessary preparations.

Jon moved swiftly past all the cheering bannermen and rejoicing ladies embracing in the halls of his fortress. Only giving a curt smile and nod when any stopped to congratulate him.  
He ducked through corridors past more joyful Northmen to the throne room, his smile now faded. A maid knelt on the floor scrubbing what looked like char marks on the floor and burnt bits of broken glass.

"What happened here?"

The maid looked up then averted her gaze humbly to the floor. "I don't know, my lord, it was only Lady Sansa who was in the throne room during the battle."

Jon nodded his thanks and left, his feet moving even more swiftly than before.

It's in her chambers he finally breathes a sigh of relief, seeing her sitting by a roaring fire, sewing some leather together with thick thread. When he enters she looks up briefly, her eyes large and black in the firelight. Her gaze returns to her needlework but her head nods in acquiescence.

"Have you heard?" he takes a step into the room, closing the thick oak door behind him.

"The battle is won, the North is ours," she remains stony faced, her gaze focused on her work.

"I...I don't know what happened," Jon runs a hand through his hair. "They had us surrounded, they had us nearly beat, then they just stopped."

"Perhaps they didn't want to fight anymore," Sansa says stoically.

"I've fought these before, they don't just give up, that's not how they work. They're the living dead, they have no reason to just give up." Jon paced as he spoke.

"Are you afraid?"

"Of course. We think we've won now, but tonight as we lie, sleepy and sated, thinking everything's going to be alright now, the next thing we know we're all slaughtered in our beds."

Sansa finally looks up from her sewing, expressionless and serene as a marble statue. "You're starting to sound like him." The words are soft, touched with the barest drop of affection. "Like Ned."

She blinks slightly, unsure why she couldn't bring herself to say father.

Jon's face softens and his eyes warm into a soft brown that reminded her of her father almost too much. He gently sat on the chair across from her, tucking up his large black cloak underneath him, revealing his muddy leather boots.

"Are you hurt?" he asks lowly.

"It's nothing," she once again recedes into her hard shell.

"It's not nothing, let me see," his hand scratches under her chin, lifting it up to reveal the now reddened handprint made by ice. "Who did this to you?"

"A wight..." Sansa shifted away, coming to standing. She walked across the room to retrieve a bottle of arbor gold from a wooden case, pouring herself a glass.

"You were attacked?" Jon hisses. "I told you to hide in the crypts!"

"This is my home too Jon, I am not some servant or helpless child. I am a Stark. I have deserved my place up on those battlements just as you, and when you sent me away I stood and protected the only thing I had left. I protected Winterfell, my throne!"

Her hand clutched around the goblet so hard, she thought it might break.

"Sansa..."

"He made it through, all your walls, all your men, he slipped past all of them and he...he found me, it was like he was coming after me specifically. So I..." A hesitation. "I killed him...before he could take everything we have worked so hard to regain."

"You killed a wight?"

Sansa nodded, turning back to Jon.

"How?"

Sansa smiled slightly, if only slightly, to herself. "A little wildfire and a blade of dragonglass."

It is a little satisfying watching his jaw drop.

"How did...what? How did you come to possess wildfire and a dragonglass blade?"

Sansa sat back down in her chair, cradling her cup of wine in the yellow-red glow of the fire. "A little bird gifted them to me."

Jon sat back in realization, his face hardening slightly. "Littlefinger."

Sansa barely had to nod in response, bringing her cup up to her lips and taking a small, steady sip.

"And where is your little bird now?" the bitterness in his tone was unmistakable.

Sansa's eyes turned to steel from over the rim of her cup. "He took flight before the battle, he's either halfway to the Vale by now or he is dead, either way, we have seen the last of him." Internally she feels herself wince. She takes another sip of wine and stares off into the fire. She can feel her brother's concern on her skin likes molasses, and it only helps to annoy her further.

"You wanted him to stay," Jon says softly, his gloved hand coming to rest on her knee.

"I wanted him to prove his loyalty and he did. Littlefinger only cares for Littlefinger."

Jon rescinded his hand and sat back, his face scrunched with worry and confusion, so much like their father, he didn't even know.

"You should go," she says to him. "Your men will be wanting to celebrate. Go, you have earned this victory, if only for an hour or two."

Jon nods and stands, slowly lumbering back to her chamber door. He chances one last look behind him to Sansa, and smiles.

"What?" Her lips curl slightly into a grin.

"You're starting to sound like her, you know. Like Catelyn." He turns and leaves, the door shutting heavily behind him.

Sansa's face sours slightly the moment he is gone. The sentiment, in another life would have filled her with joy, but on this day, in this woman, it felt as hollow and as bitter as spoiled wine. _No, not like Catelyn._

Sansa placed her wine on the table beside her chair and stood, marching with purpose to the far side of her bed, reaching underneath where she kept the box, delicately wrapped in a fur skin. Unwrapped, she placed it on her bed and carefully opened the lid, not surprised at what she saw inside. One of the three vials was missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh Sansa has been spending too much time with the Baelish. She's starting to pick up some bad habits.


	5. Twisted Masks

Her mockingbird told her once, that it is wise never to show your full hand all at once.

~~~~

Deep in the catacombs of Winterfell is where she sent him to hide, knowing no one would find him there.  
After donning her cloak and a single bright burning candle she slipped out of her chambers into the desolate hallways of a sleeping palace. The celebrations had ended for the evening, and every soldier lay sated and somnolent on bed of hay, and piles of furs.

Sansa crept in the shadows along the wall, her hand skimming lightly over the worn, charred stones, until her hand gave way. There were entrances to the crypts smattered all over the castle, you need only know where to look for them, and she knew them all. She was a Stark.

She follows the chill on her arm and the bluish veins of frost lining the aged stone walls deep into the heart of Winterfell. Her candle flickered dimly against the oppressive darkness of a narrow, never-ending passageway.

The only sign that gives him away are two pinpricks of light emanating from the icy blue where his grey-green eyes used to be. He is nothing but a crouched form, hunched over himself, shaking.  
Her breath leaves her in a fog as she lets out a gasp, finally able to take him in.

"Petyr," she whispers.

The eyes snap to her, wide and uncertain in their gaze. She can see his hands through the dimness, clutched over his heart underneath his cloak - over where the dragonglass is stuck in.

"Are you alright?" She asks calmly.

"It's cold," he shivers, his lips now tinged a bluish-grey.

"Was it you?" She asks, still stoic, not moving to comfort him. "The wights?"

"I don't know," he whispers, his shaking now violent, but his voice betrays no emotion. "Yes."

"How?"

"I don't know," he clutches the cloak further around him. "I can sense them..."

Sansa puts the candle down on the floor at her feet, slowly as though not to startle him. It was the trembling, made him seem constantly on the verge of flight; such skittishness was unusual on a creature such as Petyr Baelish.

"You're one of them now, aren't you?" Her tone is not accusatory, her demeanour is much like the stone statues of her ancestors in these very crypts.  
He doesn't answer, only continues to stare and to shiver.  
"You are. I can see it." She stands over him, regally, like a queen, watching him carefully with her Tully blue eyes.  
"How do I know that you are still Petyr?"

"Sansa," he sighs in a foggy breath, his hand reaching for hers, immediately rescinding when the barest touch of his skin causes a small sear on her delicate flesh.

It is all the answer she needs - the small twist in his features as a red mark blossoms on the part of her he had skimmed - to know that he is still hers, though her mask barely cracks when the relief washes through her.  
She notices he is eyeing her neck curiously, his face fixed behind its own mask; still ever vigilant Petyr. It takes her a moment to realize he is looking at the red handprint embedded into her throat; studying its lines, its jagged harshness against her pale skin.

"Your cloak is torn," she mutters, hoping to push his intense focus off her and on to himself. "I shall have to fix it," she suddenly sweeps her own cloak down in front of her, and kneels eye to eye with her new creature; unsure what he is now. The tear went through his cloak, past his embroidered brocade doublet, and the silk undershirt, baring a small ring of greyish skin, dappled with bits of black frostbite on the raised fringe of the entry wound to his heart.  
"I'll have to get my kit," she sighed, holding the tattered edges of cloak in her small fingers.

"Sansa," he catches her hand, holding it delicately so as not to burn her with his icy touch again. She looks at him, face as still as marble, despite the way he cradles her hand to himself, like a lifeline. She softens, if only a fraction.

"You came back," the words leave her in a hushed murmur.

"I never left," his body still vibrates with the cold, but his voice is unwavering despite the mist falling in between them. "I couldn't."

"You let me believe..."

"I thought I'd be of more use to you in the shadows," his breath hitched, his shaking momentarily spiking uncontrollably before returning to the cold little jitters in his chest and extremities.

Sansa melted slightly, removing her hand from his shaky grip to cup his face. His skin was so cold, it was like he was dead.  
"You stole my wildfire," she meant to sound accusatory but couldn't help the grin breaking across her features as he leans his head into the warmth of her hands.

"You hadn't figured out how to use it," he cracked a small smile in return.

"I would have if you'd have just told me instead of making me play games," she feels like pinching the apple of his cheek in retaliation but doesn't, allowing him to nuzzle into her palms. The tremors in his body momentarily ceased.

"It's no matter now," his voice drops to a whisper, and his face characteristically stoic. "We won."

Sansa doesn't notice at first the way his hand comes to rest on the edge of her thigh, not until he has leant close, supporting the transfer of weight on his forearms.

"Did we?" her face falls behind marble once again. Large, blue, untrusting eyes watching him warily. He makes no move closer, only lingers on the edge of just being too close, using her hands still cupping his face as his guide. It is for her to dictate how close he is able to get. The intensity of his gaze, and the cold wind of his breath leaves Sansa feeling like she is outside in the snow. Much like in the Godswood, or building snow castles in the Eyrie, but here there is no snow, no sky, no anything save but the flickering candlelight, the darkness and Petyr. She could kiss him here and pretend that it only happened in a dream, such was the heavy dream-like quality of the moment. Sansa wasn't so sure she hadn't dreamt this all up - that she wasn't still asleep in the throne room waiting for the end of the world. God knows, he didn't seem real, not with his frigid skin and depthless blue eyes.

"I didn't tell Jon," she whispers, almost shamefully. Petyr's face doesn't change, nor does he move either closer or away from her. "I lied to the King."

"What did you say?" he asks softly, his tone purposefully vague.

"I told him you left...that you were probably dead. He seemed relieved." His face remains still though his hands clench into the fabric of her skirts, scraping the material gently along her thighs. "I didn't know what else to say."

"Will you tell him now?"

"I don't know..." her eyes close for a brief moment, overwhelmed by his endless stare and the feeling of his hands dragging along the top of her legs.

"It's probably for the best," he continues, a single tremor wracking through him. "For now."

"You can't stay here, Petyr, you'll be seen," she says matter-of-factly.

"I can keep to the shadows...use the secret passageways through the crypts to get around," his hands still at the base of her hips. "Unless...you want me to leave."

Her hands leave his face and drop unceremoniously to her side. She is on her feet in moments, making space between them.

"I don't know what I want," her tone is harsh, biting in the cold dank air. "Are the wights gone...for good?"

"I'm not sure..." Petyr remains knelt on the floor, pulling his cloak around himself again. "No...I mean, they're still there...they are waiting."

"Waiting? What are they waiting for?"

"I don't know...me, I suppose," his voice sounded so fragile and uncertain, it ran a chill up her spine. Petyr had never sounded so...small, not to her at least. Littlefinger had always been one step ahead of everyone else, but not even he could have foreseen this predicament. Very few people alive, let alone Sansa, had seen Petyr at his most vulnerable; caught unawares.

"Then maybe you should go to them," she doesn't mean to sound bitter, but the words spit out of her all the same with a venom she can't control. His face twists again into that slightly pained expression; she can barely conjure the strength to look at him, retrieving the candle from the floor.

"If that is what you wish..." softly, contritely, the way he does when he wants to manipulate her into sympathy. It hardens her against him.

"That is what I wish...for now." He understands the command, though he makes no response other then shivering once again.  
"Jon won't know," Sansa says firmly. "Not until he needs to."

Petyr bows his head slowly in acknowledgement. "You are beginning to sound like a Queen."

Sansa smiles inwardly at his praise, despite herself.  
"I am a Queen, I am your Queen as I recall. Am I not?"

"Yes," he hisses darkly, enough to make a thrilling jolt run down her spine.

"I will call you if I have need of you. Stay silent, stay out of sight."

Her candle in hand, she walked out of the crypts, not once chancing a look behind her; the cold becoming all too much for her.


	6. A Perfect Fit

A sheen of frigid air wakes her up in the night. The fire had died long ago and the moon was nestled behind a screen of dark clouds, leaving her to stare up into blank nothingness. Her ears pricked with every minute sound; the weathered howls of the Northern wind blowing through the cracks in the wood and mortar; the scratch of a tiny rat's paws on the hard stone floor. Even her own breathing resounded like a loud waterfall in the death-like stillness of these witching hours.

The sting on her cheeks trumped all sound though; the iciness was familiar. It projected images into her mind that shone brightly in the darkness. The same cold, the same shivering exhale and shaky plumes of white steam. The Night King.

Instinct gripped her all too suddenly as she shot up to sitting, clutching the furs around her chest. There were no signs of life in the room but she could feel him; a cold, ominous feeling.

"The Night King is dead," she hears herself say inside her head. "You killed him."

_I killed him...and sent another in his place._

"Petyr?" she mutters out loud. Her eyes scanned around the dim room for a shape, a shadow, a glint of her mockingbird. In the span of a few breaths the chill suddenly diffuses and dissipates into the night air. The room is still chilled but it is different now; not tinged with that tar black tang of otherworldly magic.

She rests once again, leaning back into the downy stuffed mattress and nestling into her linens and furs, the warmth soon lulling her back to a dreamless sleep.

~~~~

There was a knock at the door. A heavy thud that made Sansa nearly drop the fabric in her hands. She looked up at the door, her brow scrunching slightly with curiosity.

Another three knocks resounded through the hollow chamber.

"My lady," a low murmur; a voice she could not identify.

"Enter," she put down her sewing and gingerly reached a hand underneath the side table where she'd had a small blade fixed to the underside.

The door creaked open and the Captain of the Vale Guards stepped inside. His blue uniform was in stark contrast to the bleak grey and muddy brown pallor of her chambers. The palm of his right hand rested readily on the hilt of his sword. A very regal, and noble looking gentleman, with waves of greying hair and a a bushy black beard. Sansa, in the little interactions she has had with the man, knew him to be kind and dutiful.  
Her hand slid a little away from the blade under her side table, and she could feel a small amount of ease seep into her bones.

"What is it?" she asked softly.

"My lady," he bowed courteously before approaching, taking a knee at her side, and lifting a gauntleted hand towards her, a small letter held between them.

She took the letter from him, recognizing the seal almost instantly. No one else had the insignia of a mockingbird as their sigil.

She looked back at the soldier, her brow even more bent in apprehension.

"Who gave you this?" she hissed slightly.

"The Lord Protector, my lady," he said curtly. "Before he left for the Eyrie, he instructed I give this to you should he not return within the fortnight."

Sansa felt a small wave of relief. One of his countermeasures. Littlefinger always did think three steps ahead for every eventuality. She deftly broke the red wax seal and prised the letter open. The lilting scrawl that she knew almost as well as her hit her right between the chest, before she'd even had a chance to digest the words themselves. His delicate handwriting was like an extension of himself reaching out to gently caress her cheek.

"The Vale and all her soldiers are at your command, my lady, as per Lord Arryn's wishes," the soldier bowed his head; a ceremonial gesture:

"Mine?" Sansa gasps incredulously.

"Until we are called back to the Eyrie. Lord Baelish wished to see you protected...by men that he could trust. He has trusted me as your personal guard, if you so wish it, my lady."

"And what shall I call you?"

"Woolf, my lady."

Sansa can't help the small smile play at her lips.

"That's not your real name," she watches the man carefully, eyeing the way his eyes shift under her scrutiny. Still playing his games, wasn't he?

"Until Lord Baelish returns..."

Sansa felt herself flinch slightly. Her lips pressing together tightly for barely a moment before she folds up the letter and places it atop the table.

"Until Lord Baelish returns then," she says as agreement. "I shall call you Woolf. Will you relay all my wishes to the rest of your men?"

"Of course, my lady."

"Good. Then I want you by my side at all times, should I need you."

The man bowed his head once again.

"I will inform my brother that I have control of the Vale soldiers, but I don't want a word uttered or even breathed about Lord Baelish, by any of the men...and should you receive any further correspondence from our Lord Protector, you are to not say a word and report directly to me. Understood?"

"Absolutely, my lady."

"You may return to your post. Send in a chambermaid, I must dress so I may meet with the King."

Sansa stood from her chair, headed for the simple vanity to undo the braid in her hair, brushing out the long red locks.

"The King is already in a meeting with the small council, my lady," Woolf slowly came to his feet, still standing at the foot of her armchair.

Sansa froze, an icy chill running through her veins, as if snow had dropped from the ceiling down between the layers of fabric to slide a frigid trail down the length of her spine.

"What?" she hissed, turning around to Woolf, still standing still and statuesque in the centre of her chambers.

"You were not called?"

She looks down at her small hand clenched furiously over the ivory handle of her comb.

"I was not," she brought her gaze back up. "Fetch me a chambermaid at once."

Woolf nodded in acquiescence, turned and left, leaving Sansa alone to sit on the cushioned stool before her vanity, glaring contemptuously at her reflection.

A small council meeting? Without her? After all she's done.

She could not deny the burn she felt deep in her chest. It burned brighter and hotter than when Jon had been named King in the North and no one had even bothered to acknowledge her part in it all; more so than when Jon sent her into the crypts to hide out during the Wight's siege. It burned more than the bitter sting on her hands at the top of the Eyrie; or the flushing of her bastard husband's seed from her body. It burned more than Petyr's betrayal, and the icy sting she felt in his absence.  
It burned, until it lay as hot as reddened embers at the pit of her stomach where it remained, waiting to be stoked.

~~~~

The small council sat still as she entered. Wordless, as though waiting for her to start the meeting - would that she could receive that courtesy. Her entrance was as cold as the northern wind, and as quiet as a swirling dark cloud; ready to burst, but not. Sansa said nothing, made no acknowledgement of their ashen faces, their awkward silence.

Ostracized, she can feel in their stares, because she still bore the handprint of the enemy on her throat. She didn't bother to wear a high-necked gown, or wrap a shawl around her scratched and bruised shoulders that had just begun to yellow and fade. The handprint though, stood out like a large red pockmark on the porcelain white skin of her jugular, still as bright as the day it had been made. Her neatly braided plait swept off to one shoulder leaving her wholly exposed to their contemptuous glances.

Without a word she took her place at her brothers side; sinking into the chair as regally as a queen upon her throne. She had been denied her throne but no one could deny her, her seat of honour. She was still a Stark in this room.

She darted her eyes over to her brother; a fraction of a glance that she could tell cut him to the quick - the way he tensed uncomfortably and shifted in his chair; a large chair that seemed to dwarf him in the dwindling daylight.

"Give us the room," he muttered, looking over to Davos. Whatever was said unspoken between them, the weathered man nodded and stood, signalling for the rest of them sitted around the table to take his lead and walk silently out of the hall.

Sansa watched them all leave, placing her hands firmly on the armrests and planting her feet on the ground below her.

The last shoe scuffled out the heavy oak doors and they were left alone.

"Sansa..." Jon started to say, but she cut him off with a single cold stare.

"I am a member of this council," she said steely.

"You are."

"You promised me," she continued to stare at him, though he could not bring himself to lift his eyes to her.

"I did."

"Then why?"

Jon cleared his throat. "It's Cersei Lannister."

Sansa sat back, pressing her spine against the wood of the chair.

"And?"

Jon sank further into his seat, resting his elbow on the armrest furthest from her, angling his body away, just like Ned used to do when he was uncomfortable. His hand smoothed over the curling black hairs around and underneath his jaw.

"There was a body found," he cleared his throat again. "Frozen in a snow bank."

Sansa blinked; confused and unsure.

"Almost completely blackened out by frostbite, could barely tell who it was," his voiced softened to a level that Sansa could almost feel it form a hard ball in her chest. Why was he telling her this? "About a mile off though was the body of a horse, killed by the frost as well...and a saddle bag." Jon reached inside the inner nest of his cloak and pulled out an envelope, bulging with two forms inside. One was a small wax seal, stained with ink and marked with well use, the other a small insignia ring, meant for a man's pinky finger. She recognized both items quite well.  
"We can't tell for sure but..." Jon trailed off as she picked up the ring, the bright silver and emerald bird glinting in the small ray of light filtering through the cracked mortar up in the eaves. A mockingbird.

"Where is the body?" she asked stiffly, a queer feeling of uncertainty fluttering in her stomach.

"Burned."

"Was there anything else?" she clutched the ring into a tight fist, staring down at the charred bit of stone on the floor where the wight had stood...where he once stood, she reminded herself.

"A few of his robes, some parchment, a ledger, some other small things."

"Give them to me."

Jon grasped her hand. "They're small things, they aren't worth much."

"I don't care, I want them," her voice was firm, devoid of feeling and warmth.

"I know what you felt..."

"What do you know about my feelings?" she hissed. "Especially regarding Petyr Baelish."

The name resounded in the hollow room like a loud dead thud.

"Sansa..." Jon's brow scrunched with unwarranted sympathy.

"He is dead. I know he is dead. He died in my heart the moment he chose his own little life before me. I told him to go, I told him never to come back! At least he kept one promise to me. Now he is gone and whatever he has left is mine, I deserve that much from the likes of Littlefinger."

Her voice, as though not attached to her own body, floated above her head and hovered in the air; a heavy, greying mist over the two of them.  
In her hand the ring felt like a lead weight, growing heavier and heavier in her fist.

"He was going to King's Landing, Sansa," the words hit like a blast of cold air, freezing her bones into rigidity. "He was going to betray you to Cersei Lannister."

Jon stood and reached over the table to a single sheet of parchment, unrolled and the seal broken. The mockingbird seal. He handed her the letter.

"Thank the gods he never made it," Jon remained standing, looking down. "Though now, with the wights defeated...it won't be long before we'll have gold cloaks marching on the horizon."

Sansa stared dumbly at the letter, holding it as though it were laced with poison.

"Is this why you called the meeting without me? Because of this?" her tone was harsher than she realized.

"I wanted to tell you in private...so that you..."

"So I wouldn't be embarrassed? Or that I wouldn't embarrass you?" her eyes stung and her fist clutched around the blasted ring tighter. "Because I'm the one who let in the traitor? Who was manipulated by him, who listened to him, who loved--" she stuttered over the last word, clamping her lips tightly over the breached confession. No not confession - confusion. What she had felt for that man was as confused and as twisted as her mind was at this moment.

Sansa stood, fixing her brother with a glare. "I am a member of this council," she said again, hard as the weighted stone resting in her hand. "You do not call a meeting without me by your side, brother. You may be King, but remember, I sacrificed just as much as you for this kingdom and I will not be denied my place in it any longer."

She turned and marched out of the room, right into the waiting faces of the people outside, standing out in the corridor. Each one looked at her with downcast eyes and piteous half nods.

She opened her hand to the silver and emerald ring sitting in her red little palm and held it out to them, showing it to them, hoping it would burn their eyes right out of their sockets. In front of the entire council she raised the ring like a holy sacrament and placed it on her left ring finger.

A perfect fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dont worry, Petyr's not dead. (*gasp* spoilers)


	7. Do Not Fight

Sansa woke again to the dark emptiness of twilight. A deathly calm night - not even the pervasive wind deigning to make the slightest whistle through her hollow chambers.

Again, she felt his icy presence on her cheeks, around her throat; a reminder. Her mouth dropped open and she could just see the foggy plume escape with a slow exhale. This time she welcomed the cold, its presence oddly comforting as she lay supine on the bed - as though it were her funeral pyre. Burnt in ice. She almost smiled at the thought. Buried in snow.

"Petyr," the name falls from between her lips.

Her eyelids drooped, sedately, sloping over her glassy blue eyes; sleep still beckoning. The body bearing his insignia and ring held little significance to the feeling of him, here, in this room. His icy tendrils more like a caress when she couldn't see him, when he could not speak - when he just was and that was all that lay between them.

Out of the corner of her eye though, a shadow shifts, and she snaps to it as though it were a snake. Slithering into her serenity, cold and predatory. The cold evaporated off her heated skin, along with what she knew must have been his recession and he was gone once again. Disappeared as though he had simply lost corporeal form and dissipated.

Sansa sat up in her bed, hair about her in abandon and furs thrown from her as though the heat were suffocating. She leaned over to the bedside table and lit the candle with a single scrape of flint. The shadows ran into the corners of her chamber, but little else remained save for the empty well of the fireplace and the worn high backs of the chairs nestled before it.

Slipping out of her bed, her foot touched upon the hard stone and recoiled momentarily against the harsh sting. The temperature mattered little against her curiosity - her mockingbird had been here, she was sure of it.

Carrying her candle she searched for anything, for some sort of evidence to prove that he had been here. An unfinished goblet of wine, an ink-stained thumbprint against the vanity, a stray black feather underneath his chair. Sansa paused. When had it become his chair?

In truth, he had always occupied the large, high backed, burgundy arm chair during their evenings together. She would sit in the faded sea green, with the overstuffed cushion and the intricate carvings on the arm rests. Once, she thought, it must have been a truly beautiful chair, but years of misuse had left it faded and bruised. Much like herself.

Sansa rested her hand on the back of the burgundy upholstery, remembering the way he would lean deeply into the seat, almost sinking down to the woodwork and watch her as she read. He occupied this chair many evenings, especially after that night. Sansa unconsciously swallowed; she could still taste the bitterness of the tea.

Her hand slid down the front of the chair and she was surprised to feel a residual coldness seeped into the fabric. As if something much colder had been sitting there, sunken into there - keeping vigil.

Petyr.

Without much thought she spun around the corner of the chair to face it; staring deep into the wine red fabric, studying the indents. Is this where he sat? Was he sitting here listening to the sound of her breathing?  
She sat - she sunk, absorbing the preternatural chill as deep as her body would allow. It felt like an embrace - it felt like him.

Sansa curled up into his chair and slept. Feeling safer and more at ease than she had ever felt in a bed.

~~~~

Winterfell receives a raven, bearing the seal of a lion.

An army was making its way through the North, headed by Jamie Lannister.

"It's Cersei," Jon mutters bitterly.

"We're weak, she knows it," Davos says judiciously from over Jon's right shoulder. "If there was ever a time to strike this was it. Jamie Lannister is smart enough to know that we don't have the resources or the men for a long drawn out siege. He's going to do to us what he did in Riverrun."

"And we don't have the support of the Vale that we did during the battle with the Bolton bastard," added Jon.

"Those soldiers will do what I command of them on Robert Arryn's orders," Sansa said firmly, sitting at Jon's left.

She sees Jon visibly deflate a little. His face scrunched up apologetically.

"That's not what I meant," he sighs softly. "I mean we don't have the element of surprise. We can't lure the Gold Cloaks into a battle and have the Vale come in behind them. We'll only endanger those soldiers lives, so that only leaves us with two options. Either we barricade ourselves into Winterfell and wait out the siege -"

"Which we don't have the resources or strength for," Davos interjected.

"Or we meet them on the battlefield directly and risk losing."

"Which we can't afford," Davos finished.

"There is always the third option," Sansa looks up from her sewing once more and fixes her clear blue eyes upon her brother's weary brown. He stares back, a dark knowing look seeping into his brow.

"That is out of the question," Jon hissed, his fingers clenching around the handle of the blade.

"What is this third option?" Davos stared unnervingly between them.

"Give Cersei Lannister what she wants," Sansa shrugged, returning to her sewing.

"And that is?" Davos' unease settled even more into his features. He despised the vagueness which the King and Lady Stark seemed to communicate by.

Sansa dropped her sewing once more and lifted her eyes to the weathered soldier. Her eyes, though bright and blue, betrayed a lingering darkness lying just underneath the surface. Something he had noticed all to much from the quiet red-haired woman since the moment he met her. At first he thought it merely the pain of her trauma given to her by her unfortunate marriage, and really, unfortunate life since leaving Winterfell. But in truth, he feared it ran much deeper and darker than that. The pure dark power of necessity and ruthless ambition.

Sansa' face though, remained stoic, glass and marble; her voice clear and devoid of any betraying emotion - which made her response all the more chilling to the poor sailor.

"Me."

~~~~

Sansa walked the grounds of Winterfell in slow, measured steps. She clasped her hands gently over her naval, and bent her head as though in prayer. No one disturbed her in her rumination as she paced around the border. Even her protector eyes her from the parapet above - keeping sentry from a distance. She was left alone with her raging thoughts and the comforting chill of the Northern air she had grown up in.

He used to walk with her here. They would walk together closely, bodies almost brushing against each other with every movement. So close, she could feel the warmth of him along the side of her arm through the layers of her dress and her cloak. He would sometimes whisper dark little rumours, and weird tales of ghosts and little fairy children that ate the hearts out of unfaithful men - sometimes he would not say anything at all. Sometimes they would just stand - on the razor's edge of propriety, his finger curling in the ends of her hair; eyes downcast, mouth smiling sadly.  
Her hood masked these caresses from wandering passersby, the proximity would look no more like a mentor speaking privately with his student - but no one could feel it.  
It was like drowning in warm water.

Sansa looked up at the sound of a bird in the distant trees. The snow from a craggily branch falling as the creature took off into the bleak grey sky. Over the battlements and across the blank snowy fields into the nestle of trees on the other side.

She could hear the soft sound of someone approaching behind her. The footfalls too light to be that of a soldier or her dear brother. Her eyes remained fixed to the sunless sky.

A tug on her cloak caused her to pause in her thoughts to look down at the small mud-smeared hand clenched around the sleeve of her left arm. Following the arm up to the dirty-faced oval of the small lad she had seen before. The little ward who scuttled about her fortress like a rat looking for food. He was quite sweet looking, under all the grime. Green eyes were unusual on a North-born child, so we're his bandied legs and over-sized tunic. The only thing that gave the boy away was the all too familiar folded parchment letter held in his tiny hand. He handed it to her without a word, and hobbled off as quickly as he came, disappearing behind a turret.

The note did not bear a wax seal but she knew it's author with absolute certainty. Inside the note she recognized the delicate swooping script; the faint finger smudges that gave him away. The message though, left her standing in the cold; the air ripped from her lungs.

" _Do not fight."_

~~~~

Sansa does not sleep that night. She waits.  
In darkness; in nothing but a sheer white gossamer gown, hair about her like wildfire. The sky is cloudless and the moon feels larger and brighter than usual. It bathes her in misty blue light - and she waits.  
The cold doesn't bother her; it is part of her. She can see from where she sits, the tips of a swath of snowy trees in the distance, and the howl of a lone wolf pierces through the still night.  
Her fingers find purchase on the emerald ring on her finger and twists it; three times right, three times left.

The fourth twist, she feels it. The temperature drops, the skin on her forearms prickle and pucker, and the hair on the back of her neck tingles. A single breath leaves her in a white mist. Sansa stills.

 _Where are you?_ Eyes search for his form amongst the demonic shadows along the walls. _You're not getting away from me this time._

Suddenly, she catches something in the corner of her eye. The briefest movement; a flicker of life. Sansa snaps to it, much like a hungry predator - just in time to see the edge of a boot disappear into the shadow; making a hasty retreat.

Sansa flew after him on bare feet. Reaching for the feathered edge of his cloak, his dirty ringed fingers, or even perhaps even, the side of a weather-worn scraggly furred cheek. Just long enough to look into those eyes and remind herself of what he is and what they had made each other. She falls against a cold stone wall, an unused nook, marked only with a brittle wood table holding a shallow basin of some sort, and a threadbare tapestry now left to disrepair. Odd little set pieces meant to fill the empty spaces in Sansa's chambers.

_Where have you gone? What hole have you crawled into?_

Sansa hisses through clenched teeth, her hands coming up against the wall and shoving.

_Damn it. Damn him._

In a fit of unbridled fury she swept her left arm across the table and knocked the basin to the floor, splattering cold water over her feet and a spray of little ice droplets onto her cheeks and the edges of her nightgown. She leapt out of the way of the puddle and the broken pieces of clay and porcelain now splayed about the floor at her feet.

Fate, so happened, favoured her this night. As the cloudless night left the moon shining brightly undeterred, at a particular angle that shone its beams into the corner of the mirror on her vanity, which in turn cast just enough light for Sansa to see the small puddle of basin-water, trickle into a tiny stream, travelling along the crack between the stones, right underneath the edge of the worn tapestry, and then continued to flow outward. As though it were passing right through the wall to the other side.

Sansa crouched down on the floor, careful not to cut her hands or knees on the shards of broken basin, and knelt low to peer underneath the hem of the tapestry. Seeing nothing but black, she stood once again and brought her hand straight to the centre of faded woven illustration just to feel it give under the weight of her palm. Without hesitation she yanked it down - ripped it from its hangings and let it drop unceremoniously to the wet ground. The air in the room left, escaped through the hole in the wall, leading down into a dark, dank tunnel, beckoning her deep into the catacombs under Winterfell.

So this is how he did it. She knew that there were several secret entry points into the catacombs built for quick escapes. Very few could navigate the vast maze lying underneath Winterfell's stones, but her father had always said that a true Stark would never get lost; Winterfell would guide them down the right path. She didn't even stop to light a torch before stepping into the passageway, her hand skimming along the rough edges of the walls as she ventured down, following her mockingbirds trail lower and lower.

It didn't take her long before she arrived at a narrow crevice hidden along the wall her hand had been dancing along. The crevice was large enough for a lithe little man to scurry into and that's where she found it. The space was no more the size of a horses stable. Empty casks of wine lay useless on the floor, as well as a stolen chamber pot tucked in one corner covered by a cloth soaked in a sweet smelling fragrance. In another corner lay a pile of furs and a roughly strewn mattress made of hay and grey and white chicken feathers. Stolen from the kitchens, no doubt.

 _Oh, Petyr. You cheater._  She thought to herself with a small smile. _I have found you. Your lair. Balance is restored, I should think._

Sansa looked back to the entrance of the little nook. _But where are you?_

A heartbeat passed and she had already made her way back up to her chambers, not yet ready to come face to face with her creature.

~~~~

Jon is awoken late at night. A loud banging at his chamber doors.  
He hastily through on his charcoal black cloak over his bare chest and pulled his boots on; their lips coming up over the hem of his black breeches.

The knocking persisted.

"Give me a minute," he grumbled sleepily. He rubbed his hand over his heavy, weary face; scratching his chin through his thickening black beard.

He stood, grabbing his sword, and made his way over to the door, opening it widely.

All thoughts of sleep are forgotten the moment he sees the wide eyed breathless face of his beloved red-haired sister.

"Sansa?" His brow scrunched in concern, hands coming to clasp her forearms and hold her steady as she sucked in a deep breath. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"Jon!" she gasped.

"What is it? Sansa?"

"Please," she gasped again, sucking in another deep breath, her body suddenly calming down long enough for her to steady herself and look her brother straight in the eye. "Do you trust me?"

"What?" Jon's brow scrunched further.

"Do you trust me?" Sansa said firmly.

"Sansa...I..."

She shook his hands off her arms and stared directly into the pit of his eyes.

"It doesn't matter. Trust me now. Please."

They stood there, in the hall outside the King's chambers, the tension between them so think as to be cut through. It worried Jon when Sansa got like this. The girl he had known growing up had such little conviction; so timid, and proprietous; so easily swayed! He had never known her to be cunning, or duplicitous, or manipulative in her own right - no, this was the work of Littlefinger. It always came back to the odd little man with the uneasy smile. _What else did he teach her?_

"I trust you," Jon said uneasily. "Of course I trust you."

"Then listen to me," Sansa leant closer to him, eyes never breaking.

"Do not fight the Lannister army," she whispered heavily and he could feel his stomach drop to the soles of his boots.

"What?"

"Promise me, Jon. Promise me!" she hissed. "Promise that when the Queen's army arrives you will not fight them."

"What do you know, Sansa? What are you not telling me?"

Sansa stepped back from him, breaking their intense gaze.

"I can't tell you...not yet. You have to trust me, if only this once."

"We don't have the supplies or the fortification to withstand a siege, Sansa. You're asking me to put every man, woman, and child's life at risk and you can't even tell me why."

"Trust me, I promise. I've never asked you for anything and I never except for this one time," Sansa raised her gaze to him once again. "Do not fight them, Jon. Do not fight."

With that she turned on her heels and disappeared down the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Baelentines my lovelies!


	8. Truth and Nobility

CUW 8

An army of gold-cloaked soldiers marched over the ridges into the field at mid-day. The sky was clear and grey, with swirling snowy wisps teasing the edge of the battlements where the King in the North stood with his red-haired sister by his side.

"They're here," he muttered humourlessly. His hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword. "Whatever it is that you trust in...I sure hope it works."

Sansa stood with her head held high, her loose hair blowing in the slight wind.

"It will," she said firmly. Her voice barely betraying her own nagging doubts running across her mind. 

"Whatever happens next," Jon turned to look at her, his brown eyes thick as mud with a stare of pure solemnity. "It's too late to turn back now."

Davos stood on Jon's right, the hard line of his jaw pulled taut. Biting back his unsaid remarks. Davos wasn't the type to believe in something he could not form or touch or see for himself. It had kept him alive thus far. He couldn't see what Sansa saw - and Davos could swear the woman had seen into the depths of hell itself and had let it scorch her from the inside out. Such was the Lady Stark's presence, like an undying ember waiting to be stoked. Sansa looked out into the field - an unyielding, penetrating gaze - as the Lannister men built up their ornate crimson and gold tents. Men were sent straight to the hem of trees bordering the clearing and began slashing at them harshly with axes and swords. Bonfires began blossoming over the wide grey and snowy white and charcoal black landscape; like spring poppies. Three riders, from the din, rode at a leisurely pace through the concourse of soldiers creating camp for the long siege - down the long sloping mounds of dirty, browning snow and dead grass patches till they stopped just in front of the gate to Winterfell herself. 

Two of the riders, Sansa did not know. Simple soldiers, holding the Lion's banner and sounding a blood red bugle into the full frigid air. Taunting the keepers of Winterfell's charred stones.

The third rider, sat comfortably in the middle on a large black steed, Sansa would know anywhere. His gold armour gleamed even in the pale sunlight. He wore no helmet, and kept his sword sheathed tantalizingly at his side, riding with one hand on the horn of his gilded saddle and the other idly on his thigh, tucked into the crook of his hip; cold and dreary bronze.

"Jamie Lannister," spat Davos. "Still acting on the behalf of his sister Queen."

"He doesn't know any better," Sansa muttered, continuing to stare at the golden haired Kingslayer. "His whole life has been in service to her will. He has none of his own."

She could sense Jon's discomfort through her cloak. It hardly bothered her. 

"He's mocking us," Davos growled, his hand clutching into a tight fist at his side.

"It's not mockery," Jon placed a hand on Davos' arm to calm him. "He's pitying us."

"That's worse," Davos sneered. "We must look like sitting ducks to him. Waiting to get mauled down."

Sansa finally glared over her shoulder, eying the weathered old sailor behind the fur lining her hood.

"Let him think what he likes. No one makes a move against him he cannot be provoked into an attack," Sansa turned back to the Lannister, still sitting and watching. 

"For how long, Lady Stark?" Davos was skeptical, as he always was, a trait she valued in her brothers advisor though it wore thin on her patience.

"Just wait, you'll see, have men continue to patrol the battlements. Come and sit with me, Brother," Sansa took Jon's arm leading him down to the narrow stone staircase into the courtyard. "I had a maid mull some wine for us in the kitchens. Keep me company until supper?"

Davos clenched his jaw once more, bowing his head in acquiescence. The Lady Stark worried him, he could not say exactly how, but she had become such a dark and strange little creature since the death of the weird, and cunning little Lord Baelish. He didn't presume to know what kind of relationship the two of them had, but he had heard bits and pieces of rumours around the castle - dark whispers of clandestine visits, long and quiet walks along the grounds, and secrets kept between the two of them.   
What did they speak about, he wondered, what did she know?

~~~~

Jon remained silent as he hurriedly walked her past the uneasy soldiers standing in the courtyard. A hard hand gripped her upper arm as they strode through the halls, up the weathered staircases, into the dingy little room the Northmen deigned to call their small council. Shirking her roughly into the centre by releasing his grip on her and slamming the door shut.

"What is going on Sansa?" he said darkly, standing as still and as virtuous in the middle of the room as a statue in the hall of the Seven. 

"I told you," Sansa sighed, pulling off her cloak to examine the reddened indentation of a thumbprint on her pale white skin.

"You told me to trust you and I did, you told me not to fight, and I haven't. I have done everything you have asked of me Sansa, but you must give me something!" 

Sansa looked up from her arm, her eyes steel and pointed.

"Something?" she asks dumbly.

"Something to soothe all the people out there, standing, ready to die for Winterfell and for you!" 

"I...I can't..."

"Why not? What are you planning? What information are you working on? Do you have some sort of Inside connection to the Lannister army? Some ally of your former husband's? What is it Sansa? What do you know? What aren't you telling me?"

"I...I have good reason to believe that something will happen to Cersei's army. I can't tell you what and I can't tell you when, but something is going to happen, and it is best for everyone - you, me, Winterfell itself, if we stay inside these walls."

"That's not an answer Sansa!"

"But it is all that I have!"

"Night is falling and soon. Do you realize you could be condemning us?" 

"No!" Sansa shouted, her face flushed with the effort. "Trust me! I know! Something is going to happen! If you can believe that red woman brought you back from the dead, believe in me now!"

Jon stared at her long and hard, his brow furrowing deeply with unease. "At least her magic is something I can understand, but yours..." His voice was disbelieving and cold; a shot of ice ran up her spine. "You are not the sister I thought you were."

Sansa feels her own heart sink to the soles of her boots. A mixture of sadness and relief. Finally, it is spoken aloud.

"Are you so disappointed in me?" Sansa was cold, using her height to weather herself against him. "That I'm not more like her. Like mother, or like Ned. I don't act like your vision of a Stark. Not noble, or warm, or content with safety and needlework. I am ambitious, and cunning. I don't ask for permission, or care about truth and nobility. I have learned that the world doesn't care about truth or nobility, not when it comes down to want. Not when it comes to survival - and I have made an art out of survival. I have had to make the choice dozens of time. Right or wrong, good or bad, life or death, player or pawn and I have made my decision. I choose Winterfell! My home! Above all else. I am not you, brother, King of the North, and I am not a ghost of some wandering idyll of the past. I am something altogether new, and frightening, and -"

"Baelish..." Jon mutters solemnly.

Sansa falters, her words ripped right out of her mouth along with the air from her lungs. What did he say?

She can't even respond when a commotion is heard coming from outside. Jon is immediately drawn to the window, peering down to the courtyard as a throng of people swarmed together, shouting and shoving, until a cry rose above the din - a cry from a child.

Sansa rushed to the window, drawn to the commotion.   
The procession of soldiers and other Northmen were concentrated around a woman from the kitchens pulling along a young screaming boy, leading him to the centre of the courtyard. Cries of "Thief!" and "Little Rat!" emanated around the throng of people, looking to see the young lad's punishment. 

One look and Sansa recognized the young boy in his over-sized tunic and dirty, matted hair. Without another word to Jon she tore out of the throne room and out to the landing, following the crowd's procession until she came to the rickety wooden staircase along the inner court wall. She ran down the staircase and pushed her way through the soldiers, the cooks, the maids, the gentry, and all the Northfolk gathered behind the safety of Winterfell's protection, to see the woman roughly holding the squirming lad at the epicentre of the concourse - a large knife deftly held in her other hand. A large crate being carried by two men was lugged into the circle and placed before the woman.

Jon, unbeknownst to Sansa in her haste, had followed her out into the dizzying crowd, pushed his way to the centre, much like Sansa, and stood before the woman calmly; kingly.

The crowd quieted down to a pulsating silence.

"What's going on here?" he asked the woman.

"A little thieving rat!" the woman spat. "Caught 'im stealing food. Bits of bread and meat and a cask of wine. A whole bag of mint! Been doing it for weeks. I thought it was just rats, but turns out it was a much larger vermin!"

A realization pinged deep inside Sansa. Mint.

"Thieving deserves what thieving gets!" the woman hollered. "One of his little hands ought to do the trick."

"Hear, hear!" muttered a voice from the crowd.

Jon's face shifted uncomfortably. The young boy squirmed fearfully, trying to escape the woman's grip.

"He must be punished!" cried the woman.

Jon looked between the boy and the woman thoughtfully for a moment before nodding in acquiescence. The woman's pudgy face lit up with glee. She dragged the poor child over to the crate, forcing him to kneel as she stretches his arm over the pallet.

"Wait!" Jon ordered. "Give me the knife."

The crowd fell silent and confused.

"My father always said that the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword," Jon took the knife from the woman and dropped it unceremoniously. "Ned Stark was a fair and judicious leader and so am I."

Jon reached for the ornate handle of his sword, ready to unsheath it.

"Stop!" Sansa cried before she could stop herself. "That boy's not a thief!"

"He is my lady! Saw 'im with my own two eyes!"

"He's not, I tell you. Everything this boy took from your kitchens he did at my request. He is my page."

"Your what?" Jon spat, his eyes narrowing at her.

"My page. He does things for me, including fetching me aliments for when I am on my moonsblood."

Sansa can't help the feeling of satisfaction when the red pungent colour drains from the woman's face, along with all the vindictiveness and ire that once filled her.

"Let him go," Sansa commands firmly. To her brother more than to anyone else.

Jon stared at her with a hard impenetrable gaze for a long moment, his hand still on the butt of his sword, his fingers twitching around the decorative head. 

"Please," Sansa implored, though the steel in her eyes hardly softened.

"Let him go," Jon's hand left his sword. "This boy is my sister, the Lady Sansa's page. From now on, she is responsible for him."

The woman quickly released her grip on the poor boy, who immediately ran to Sansa and hid behind her skirts. 

"My apologies, my lady, I did not know," her face reddened with embarrassment. 

"See that you don't forget," Sansa muttered, it unkindly, placing a protective hand on the boy's dirty head. 

Jon fixed her with one last pointed glare. She could feel the tension grow between them. She had never fought with Jon, not even when they were children. She had never been on the receiving end of his ire, it seems she now had a taste for it. 

The crowd dissipated and dispersed, going back to their daily routine. The excitement and fear of the siege had died down to a dull roar, buzzing at the back of everyone's mind. The soldiers maintained their posts on the battlements with Sir Davos, and the rest quietly prepared. Shoeing horses in the stables, and baking loaves of bread to store in the tunnels if the siege should push the women and children underground. 

Sansa took the filthy hand of her page and led him into a little alcove, out of sight of both her wandering guard, and her brother's suspicious glances. She took an end of her cloak and lifted it to wipe his tear streaked face. Such beautiful green eyes. She would have to clean and hem his tunic though, and possibly give him a bath in her chambers, if he was to be her page. 

"You know where he is, don't you?" she muttered lowly. "You gave me his letter."

The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve, then nodded. 

"I have a message for him. Can you deliver it to him for me?"

The boy stared at her a moment, wordless, if he could even speak at all. His eyes were as wide as saucers in his small round face, bright and green.   
Then he nodded.

"Excellent. Come with me." she offered him her hand which he took hesitantly but with a small smile. "You must be hungry."

Sansa led her new page into the grey daylight, him hobbling on his bowed legs after her. They walked past the battlements where her brother stood and up the steps into Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop! Sansa be queening!   
> It won't be too long before our Lady of Ice and Fire is reunited with the mother-troll himself. Mister Lurky-Lurky King of Shadows. (Save me Dinah, I'm losing my mind!) 
> 
> Read and enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> A writing experiment.  
> Experimenting with tone and style, and my own weird notions that keep me up at night.


End file.
